


heart is a storybook, a star burned out

by falterth



Category: Monster Hunter (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 11:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16515803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falterth/pseuds/falterth
Summary: “I could carry you,” you offer out loud.“I'd like that,” Sophia says, brushing her hair out of her face. Her glasses are crooked again and you feel like crying.





	heart is a storybook, a star burned out

**Author's Note:**

> heavy use of headcanons involved in this fic. comments are appreciated.
> 
> title taken from [The Sky Is A Neighborhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRqiFPpw2fY) by foo fighters

The Shagaru Magala falls. It’s anticlimactic for what you were expecting—a beam of light, perhaps, a shower of snow-white scales, a mournful cry that splits the day in half. Instead you get in a lucky shot or ten and it dies with an exploding bullet lodged through its head. If this is the story, you’ve come to an end that doesn’t satisfy you. Your brow furrows as you watch the thing go through the last of its death throes and only then do you carefully approach it. Well, you think, crouching down next to its body, maybe something did happen. The sky is blue. The rocks of the Sanctuary that had reached toward the sky with points as sharp as claws no longer look as though they’re trying to blot out the light.

It’s not a story, you tell yourself. It’s just an ordinary day, an ordinary hunt. Except it isn’t, not really.

The sun shines, Cathar’s Sanctuary is clean, and you get to work carving parts off the Shagaru Magala.

You can’t salvage all of it. There are parts that have been pierced and punctured and shredded by your bullets. No matter. Its horns are intact, a few of its claws are whole, and you easily cut the tail off its body. You pry a few of its hard protective shells off its back—they’d been loosened by damage. Its wings are riddled with bullet holes but you manage to carve one off anyway. Its scales are tough and you are unable to pry any off it no matter how hard you tug. In the end you’re reduced to combing through long grass and loose stones and come up with four pristine scales.

Your spoils are dragged off to one side, out of the glare of the sun and into the shadow of the boulder in the middle of the Sanctuary. The Magala’s carcass looks nothing like the original beast had and you stop to mourn it, that magnificent creature—but only for a few seconds. You are a hunter. You’d gotten over seeing their mangled bodies bare of any valuable parts the first time you’d killed a Great Jaggi.

How far you’ve come.

The sun dips down toward the horizon and you realize you’ve been working at it for the best part of two hours. The Dragonseers should be here soon. You’ve got nothing to do except wait so you look around, stretch, and start to take your armor off. Gore Magala armor is . . . well, it brings out the worst in you. The savage bits you don’t like out in the open. Imagine walking in someone else’s shoes, knowing their experiences and who they are as a person. Now imagine walking around in a monster’s skin. That’s what this is. You don’t pretend to understand why the armor makes you stronger in ways it shouldn’t or draws out parts of your personality you didn’t think existed. It’s just the way of things. Hunters keep their heads down—you’re no exception. The guild throws you at a monster and you kill it.

You’ve finished coaxing the final leg-piece off you when the sounds of air balloons register behind you and to your left. You watch them drift almost lazily down to the earth. They land as smoothly as they can and the crew pours out. Noise blossoms into the air.

“Great job out there,” someone tells you. He hands you a canteen of water and you take it gratefully. You get a closer look at his face and see it’s shining with adoration. “I was watching the whole thing. You know, you really inspire me.”

You allow a soft smile to unfold on your lips. “Do I? I’m glad.”

“You do! In fact, I’ve been thinking about training to become a hunter—”

He cuts himself off and stares at you. Your hand had shot out of its own accord and is now clamped down on his shoulder like a vice. “You are—you are young,” you begin slowly, carefully, trying to form the right words. “The path of a hunter is dangerous. I love it. I have come so far I’d die without it. But you’re free to pursue other paths. You’ve heard glory tales about hunters dying in combat, making their last stands in front of the towns at which they are stationed. You’ve heard of hunters stumbling toward monsters, bleeding from gashes all over their bodies. It isn’t half as fun as it looks. The stories used to be there to warn people. Now I think they do the opposite.” He looks hesitant but considering. You give him a long look and release your grip on him, clapping him on the back and walking past him so you can oversee the loading of your monster materials. “I love being a hunter, but you might not. Think about it.”

A representative from the Guild is waiting for you next to the Magala’s carcass. Your nose wrinkles. It stinks to high heaven.

“We’ll be examining this, of course,” the woman informs you. She’s all business. Some of the crew has already started to approach the carcass and a huge stretcher has been brought forth, no doubt to transport it onto the large balloon. “I assume you have all the materials you need.”

You nod.

She snaps her fingers and the crew heaves the thing onto the stretcher with an odd squelching noise. You’re used to it but that doesn’t mean you like it, so you turn away and direct the other half of the uniformed guild crew to start bringing your materials to the air balloon.

After you’re satisfied they’ve gotten everything you gather up your armor, place it in your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and climb onto the second balloon. A familiar face is waiting for you, the young man from earlier.

“About what you said before,” he begins. “I’d—I’d like to try myself anyway. The look on your face when you come back from a successful hunt is . . . well, I envy your happiness.” He pauses and smiles. “And if I could pull off armor even half as well as you do, consider me in.”

You laugh.

*

During the trip back the magnitude of your victory sets in. Sure, it wasn’t as glorious as you’d thought it would be—but you did it. You unraveled that last little thread of mystery the Caravaneer had been trying to detangle for the past few years and you did it by taking on the most difficult hunt you’ve had to face as of yet. An ordinary day, Sophia had said. Come back safe. And you did it.

You turn one of its scales over in your hand, a mirror image of the one kept in the Caravaneer’s hat. Is this the end of the journey? Will the caravan disband?

You hope not.

You’ve had too many adventures together, you think, for it to all end now. You’ve done too much, seen too much, traveled too much. From Val Habar to Harth to Cheeko Sands to Cathar. It started with a hunter who barely knew what she was doing, a hunter who climbed onto the arm of an elder dragon to retrieve an old man’s lost hat. If it ends now it’ll end with a seasoned hunter who knows the tricks of her trade, a hunter who got in a lucky shot against a shining white beast.

“Landing!” someone from the crew calls out.

You nod to show you’ve gotten the message. You’re calm on the outside but inside you’re nervous, a roiling pot of tension and anxiety. You want to spend eternity in the basket of this balloon, basking in the relief of your win. You don’t want to face the Caravaneer or the Wycoon or the Man. You’re not sure if Sophia will stick around if the Capital C Caravan disbands. She’ll probably move on to another hunting caravan. She’ll find new monsters to document. You don’t plan on retiring but somehow this feels like the end.

You brace yourself for the light impact of landing. It’s smooth going overall. The crew moves like clockwork, unloading supplies and deflating the balloon. You heft your armor bag over your shoulder and disembark. The Caravan is waiting for you.

“Well?” the Caravaneer asks. His face is shining with either anticipation or sweat. Given the hot weather, it’s hard to tell. You settle for a nod and a smile. He pulls you in for a hug and claps his hand on your back. “I knew yeh could do it! Fancy that, Kindred Hunter. Do yeh . . . d’yeh have one of those scale thingies?”

You set your armor down—you can feel it pulling at you, telling you to put it on, but you ignore that—pull one of its scales out of your pocket, and hand it over to him. He takes it reverently and smooths his hands across its small surface. Distantly you notice people crowding in around you—the Caravan, no doubt—but you’re focused on the Caravaneer now.

The Shagaru Magala’s death may have disappointed you. You hope the Caravaneer won’t. You’re clinging desperately to the last little string of adventure in a futile attempt to stick with these people. It might not even be that heavy. Maybe this thought hasn’t even crossed the minds of everyone else. To them, maybe the Caravan is forever—or at least until the last of you have died. You remember the clammy tightness of the armor on your body. You need to make sure. You don’t think you could exist by yourself anymore.

“We’re . . . ” You try to think of a way to word it that doesn’t make you sound like a lunatic. “We’re still the Caravan, aren’t we? The Shagaru Magala was your big mystery. I’d hate to intrude.”

You wouldn’t hate to intrude. You want to stick with these people until the day a monster tears your throat out. But you can’t say that. You could never say that.

“Hah!” It’s the Wycoon. “You couldn’t pry me away from this caravan for a million zenny. Actually, that’s . . . that’s rather a lot of money. My apologies, Hunter, but—”

“I understand,” you say. The edges of a smile dance on your face. “You’re a merchant. Zenny is your business.”

“I feel the same,” the Man says, coming up a little closer on your right. The bustle of the balloon crew is dying down. They’re transporting the materials to the Man’s smithy right now, probably. “Minus the zenny part, of course. If not for you, where would I get my best materials?”

You take his hand and shake it gently. The Man isn’t always one for speech. You’re always grateful when he decides to express himself in spoken language. You understand where he’s coming from. That said, it’s hard not to be talkative around the Caravan. They’re your friends—you trust them with most everything in your life.

“That’s true. I wouldn’t want to cut off your supplies. Speaking of those, I was able to collect so much from the Shagaru Magala. I trust you’ll have your hands full over the next few weeks,” you say, and he smiles.

“That I will,” he replies, gently letting go of your hand.

“And I go wherever the Man goes,” Little Miss Forge says brightly, peeking out from behind said Man’s broad arms. “Can’t slack off on my apprenticeship!”

Something inside you melts. A block of nervousness, a lump of anxiety that’d been there before drips into your stomach and turns into warmth. The Capital C Caravan is—well, it’s what it is. There aren’t many words you can think of that would encompass the entirety of what the Caravan means to you. The Shagaru Magala may have been one of the first things the Caravaneer had told you about, but there’s so much more you haven’t done yet. The mystery is solved, the Sanctuary is clean once more, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing else to discover. You’re sure the Caravaneer will pick up another loose thread somewhere and then you’ll all follow it, running back and forth on it as though it’s a tightrope. You’d like that. Maybe you’ll have a few months of peace, but that’s not the end of all things. It couldn’t be.

“Well, we best get to seein’ what we can do to help yeh along with the unpacking. I reckon I’m startin’ to miss Val Habar a fair bit. Whaddya say? An ol’ trip to our roots?” he asks. You can tell how eager he is to visit what you suspect is his hometown. The Caravaneer bounces on his heels. You wonder where his falcon is.

“Of course,” you say, extricating yourself from the small group of people. It’s been a while since you’ve visited Val Habar. A quick trip wouldn’t hurt anyone. “I would love to.”

You don’t get far before a pair of arms wrap around you and someone collides with you. It’s Sophia. You return the hug as best as you can. Her glasses are perched askew on her face. Her hair is messy, she’s got notebook scraps in the folds of her clothes, and she’s clutching said notebook in her left hand.

You could lean down and kiss her. Your faces are only a few inches apart. You could but you don’t.

“Doodle!” she exclaims. “I’m glad you’re not dead! I was so worried! You have to tell me everything about it, okay? How big was it? Was it the same as the Gore Magala? What color was it? Did you catch the Frenzy virus? You stink! Go take a bath, Doodle!”

You try not to let your face redden. She smells clean and her hair is damp, as though she’d washed herself this morning. In comparison you’re a sweaty dirty mess, covered in your own blood and the Shagaru Magala’s. _Go take a shower, Doodle!_ You have so much to pack and unpack. You wonder if you’ll be able to take a bath today. If nothing else you can probably just go for a quick dip in the river. Instead of responding you reach up and adjust her glasses for her. She squeaks in surprise and you laugh.

You know people say love is dangerous. Casualties are a common tragedy among the world of hunters. Right now, you’re watching Sophia’s every movement, taking in her every feature—her slightly flushed face, her disheveled appearance. You don’t care about stories that say hunters usually go it alone because they’re too afraid they’ll die before they can have children. You don’t even care if it’s true. You couldn’t have children with Sophia anyway. When you die you want to do it in her arms. Most hunters drag themselves away and die alone, suffering where no one else can see, into a dark cave or field of tall grass. You want to die in the light.

“Doodle?” she asks, letting go of you and taking a step back. “You good?”

“Yes,” you say. You hope it sounds convincing. You don’t think she would approve of your current train of thought. Sophia clings to life with a fervor you rarely see in anyone and avoids talk of death as much as she can. “You’re staying with the Caravan, right, Sophia?”

You love saying her name. It’s not so much that the others don’t trust you with theirs—most of them, maybe, have lost their names, or have abandoned them to a past better left alone. Names are private, valuable. It’s an ancient tradition passed down by the same gods you swear by. Their own names are forgotten by now. You wonder why Sophia shares hers.

“About that,” she starts. She hasn’t gone pale but she’s pretty close. You can guess what she’s about to say next. “Well, I know you’re going with the caravan, but—Doodle, it’s been a really exciting few years with you all. I’d love to stick with you for a trip back. But there’ve been sightings of a few Brachydios down near Harth and the Guild needs me to relocate there anyway—actually, there’s this really big hunting competition they’re setting up in a while and I think you’d probably want to participate, they’ve been calling guildmarms from all over to go help and that’s why nobody’s in Harth—I . . I don’t want to miss it. I’ll try to be back for the competition. But you should get settled down. I’ll take care of things in Harth until the proper guildmarm gets back. He’s probably just helping them set up. I’ll be back. I know I will.”

“I’ve been on the move for so long,” you say, shaking your head. You understand her reasoning but the thought that Sophia is leaving, even for a while, puts you off-balance. “What’s a few more months to me? I came from a land far from here. Val Habar is the Caravaneer’s home, not mine. What’s the harm? It’s just a competition. They have it every few years, don’t they? I’ll participate next time.”

“But I just thought you wouldn’t want to come see a bunch of Brachydios,” she says, floundering helplessly. “I know how much you hate hunting them.”

It’s true—the Brachydios is one of your least favorite monsters to hunt, right up there with the Tigrex—but for Sophia you would hunt as many as she wanted.

“I want to be with you. At least, for part of it,” you say, glancing back toward the Caravaneer. He’s talking animatedly with the woman from the Guild, making half-gestures toward the carcass of the Shagaru Magala being loaded into a different balloon for transportation to the official Guild building. You pick up your armor. “Let’s walk and talk. I need to go back to Val Habar for a month or two. Accompany the Caravaneer, make sure the Man’s got enough supplies to last, confirm some trade routes with the Wycoon. But we can meet up in Harth if you want. I’m sure the Caravaneer will slow down a bit now, at least until he finds some other adventure he wants me to go on. He looks homesick.”

“He does,” Sophia says hesitantly, falling into step beside you. “You’d really make the trip to Harth just to watch a bunch of Brachydios stomping around and destroying things? I know you’re not as into monsters as I am.”

“If you don’t want me to come, just tell—”

“I want you to come!” Sophia says, nearly tripping over her words. Your mouth snaps shut with a click. She grabs onto your arm and you try not to lean too much into it. “Of course I want you to come with me. You’re my best friend, you know?”

“Then that’s that,” you decide. The warmth from before is still dripping into your stomach. You want to wrap your arms around her but you hold back a little. She still looks a little lost, a little hesitant. You want to kiss her but you stay as you are. “I’ll come to Harth in a month. Hopefully that gang of Brachydios will still be active then. It takes a certain kind of hunter to bring one down.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to get in on the action,” Sophia accuses. “I knew you couldn’t hate such a beautiful creature as much as you say you do!”

Actually, you do. You only want to hunt one because it might impress Sophia. You try not to wince. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever made for hunting a monster. Most of the time you don’t have to—the Guild or the Caravaneer or a village chief picks a monster, opens the gate, and lets you loose on it. You’re a world-renowned hunter now. Maybe it’s time to stop fooling around and get a little more serious instead of hunting everything Sophia wants to see just so you can bring stories of it back to her. As soon as you look into Sophia’s shining eyes your little self-reprimand slides away like water off a duck’s feathers.

You grin. Let her believe you harbor a secret love for those hellbeasts.

“I’d better start preparing to move. You’ll go to Harth straight from here?” you ask. The two of you are getting nearer to your house now. Cathar is a large, sprawling village, and the loose rocks and soil do nothing to speed you along, especially with Sophia by your side. She trips over stones every few steps. Her shoes aren’t made for this terrain. She says she shouldn’t buy new ones because she wants to wear the Guild-issued uniform.

 _I could carry you,_ you almost say. _Then you wouldn’t stumble so much._

Sophia nods. “I’m going to tell everyone else, of course. I’m glad you’ll be coming with me. I know a bunch of other hunters are gonna be there. But it just wouldn’t be the same without you! This notebook has only gotten as thick as it has because of your efforts! Your Kecha Wacha impression rocks, by the way.”

You grimace. “I’m not doing that again.”

“No, you aren’t,” she says knowingly. “I’ll have you imitating a Rathian tonight.”

You drag a hand over your face. The uncomfortable grit of dirt and dried blood feels horrible on your fingertips but not as horrible as it usually does. You wonder if that’s because you’re just learning to tolerate it or if you’re starting to like it. “Of course you will. And when did I agree to this?”

“Come on,” she says. Her eyes are wide and pleading. “I sewed the costume myself! I even have little wings for you. I know the Man would get a kick out of it.”

“He laughs at everything when he’s drunk. You don’t need to humiliate me to get him roaring,” you say. Sophia laughs obnoxiously and speeds up to get ahead of you. You’ve reached your house. Sophia doesn’t wait for you to open the door—she barges in and immediately crouches down to greet Squall. “Was he okay while I was out hunting?”

“Minimal crying for you. He was really good,” Sophia reports. She flops down onto your bed, arms and legs sprawled out so that she takes up most of it. “But what about how I did, Doodle? I’m exhausted. It was so hard being worried for you, you know. I was almost crying when you left! Now I’m really happy. It’s weird. You still owe me a story about the battle, but I guess you can tell me tomorrow. I’m still waiting on you to take that shower.”

You finish putting your armor away and sit down beside her. Her hair’s dry now—nothing really stays wet in the face of the winds of Cathar—and slightly wavy. You want to reach out and touch it. You want to work out all the little tangles the breeze whipped up. Your face is angled down so you can see her better. Your hand is stretched out behind you to support your weight. It would be so easy to lean over and kiss her, to turn the silver moment golden. To shift your balance from the heel of your hand to your elbow. To frame her face with your hair. It would be so easy. You don’t. Instead you say, “I made it back alive, didn’t I? I’m okay.”

Sophia looks at you. Her glasses are still on straight. It’s refreshing from their usual crooked position on her face. Crooked isn’t bad, though. It’s cute. You don’t understand how she manages to make everything look good on her. You want to kiss her but you don’t know if you can. You love her. Hunters shouldn’t become romantically involved, people tell you. You’ve never subscribed to that belief very much, even though you repeat it to yourself every day.

So what’s holding you back?

You’re not sure. Maybe you cling to telling yourself hunters shouldn’t have real relationships so you can avoid jumping into one. You want everything you have with Sophia right now and more. Her face is so open right now. Inviting. You think you could lean down to kiss her and she’d kiss you back. You’ve heard the stories about people left with broken hearts after their partner went and got themselves killed in the field. You don’t want to do that to Sophia. You want to die in her arms. In the light. You want a lot of things.

You want to kiss her but in the end you don’t. You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to hurt her—it’s better than admitting you don’t want yourself to be hurt. You don’t want her to push you away and ask you what you’re doing. What you think you’re doing. Sophia isn’t like that, you think. But it’s happened before, to you, with other people.

You wouldn’t want to hurt Sophia like that. It’s the only reason you’re not kissing her. _Keep on telling that to yourself,_ some part of you taunts. You ignore it.

You push yourself off the bed and pick Squall up. “Come on. We’d better get him onto the ship and settle down.”

You hear the rustling of bedsheets behind you. She must be sitting up. You can feel her gaze on your back. A shiver goes up your spine and you hug Squall a little closer to you. He snuggles into your chest, happy to have you at home again. He always gets anxious when you’re away on hunts. You’d been gone for a week the first time you’d taken on a Tigrex. The Caravaneer had said Squall was inconsolable.

“Okay,” Sophia says simply, standing and collecting her notebook from the floor where she’d dumped it earlier.

It was a clumsy change of topic. You’d been grasping for something to talk about. You’d wanted to shatter the moment. Something had happened. You could have continued on like that, sitting on your bed and staring at her lips wondering what it would be like to kiss her—but you didn’t. The air inside your little house seems to have gone stale. You can’t seem to breathe. You should feel bad for the loss of whatever—whatever that had been. Maybe the armor you wear is making you forget how to be human.

You’d gone out into the Sanctuary clad in the skin and scales of the Shagaru Magala’s predecessor. You always feel a little dirty, a little empty, after wearing that particular armor set. More prone to mood shifts. A little more apathetic. Less likely to pick up signals that aren’t aggression. You think you ruined the moment. Sophia’s quietly packing up a pouch of treats for Squall. You cradle him in your arms. At least he loves you, even if you feel a little lost in your own body sometimes.

“I need to wash all this grit off me,” you comment. The silence presses itself into your ears so you break it.

Sophia hums. “Why not wear it around everywhere? You could make it a new fashion trend. I killed a Shagaru Magala! Look, there’s the blood on my cheek to prove it.”

You laugh to hide your unease. It’s a harmless joke but something inside you reacts to her words in a way you don’t like. You want to parade its blood around for everyone to see. You killed it. It left its mark on you and you took its life. It’s wrong to think about but some part of you is satisfied with it.

“Maybe,” you say. “And this stain here on my arm is from when I vanquished a mighty Slagtoth. It’s a shit stain.”

“Ew . . . Slagtoth patties,” Sophia says. She’s giggling, though. You feel proud of yourself. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as you think it had. It was probably all in your head. She doesn’t look as serious as she had a few moments ago. You feel a little silly, a little embarrassed, a little lightheaded. And happy. You’re happy. You feel this way around Sophia a lot. “Do we need to get anything else out of here?”

“No. I cleaned out all my food before I left to take on the Shagaru Magala,” you say. You nudge the door open with your hip and wait for her to exit first. The pouch of treats for Squall rests on the top of her notebook.

“Oh, okay. That’s good.”

The walk up onto the Arluq is silent. You hope it’s a companionable silence. You always seem to mess up the little things. You love her so much it’s hard not to, you think. When it’s just the two of you, you have no idea what to do with yourself. Where to put your hands, your legs. How deep to breathe, how quickly to breathe. How often you blink. The volume of your voice. You’re so afraid it won’t be up to her standards that you worry yourself into the ground trying to make up for it.

But you love her so much it’s almost impossible not to try to be the best you can around her.

The rest of the Caravan has started to pack up, minus the Street Cook, who’s stirring something into a soup. He’s got his portable stove out right out on the deck of the ship.

“Hey!” he calls out. His voice is an odd mixture of high and low. It’s horrifyingly adorable, but he would whack you over the head with a pan if you said that to his face. “I couldn’t come greet mew. I was busy! But I saved some food. Come sit down. You too, Guildmarm.”

You set Squall down and follow the Street Cook up to the main deck. Sophia stows the bag of treats on a shelf in your room and hurries after the two of you.

“Stir fry!” the Street Cook says, once you’ve sat down at the little table with Sophia. “I kept it hot in the wok. Lots of it. You’re hungry after the hunt. Am I right?”

You nod. “I’m starving.” You hadn’t really noticed just how hungry you’d been until he’d pointed it out. Thank the heavens for the street cook, you think. You’d have died of starvation if he didn’t remind you to eat every day.

“Help yourself,” he encourages.

You vaguely hear someone’s heavy footsteps coming into earshot but you’re only focused on the food in front of you. The street cook hands you a plate, turns his head to greet whoever’s boarded the ship—it’s the Man, probably—and you dig in.

*

“I think my stomach’s gonna explode,” Sophia groans. “I shouldn’t have eaten that much.”

“Maybe you can learn from your mistakes. That is, after all, the path to wisdom,” you say lightly. You’d put away around four plates of stir fry before the Man had asked you to maybe leave a little for the rest of them. Nonsense. There had been more to go around, and you’d have been happy to pay the street cook to make some more. You’d even have gotten ingredients for him. Or maybe the Man had been really hungry and hadn’t been able to wait. It doesn’t really matter—you were starting to fill up anyway.

“I want dessert,” Sophia says, completely ignoring you. That’s okay. Sometimes you’re just content to watch her. “And you still need that bath, Doodle. I still can’t believe there aren’t any showers on the Arluq.”

She’s right. You can’t smell yourself, but you can clearly see that the rest of you is absolutely filthy. Your hands are almost grey with dirt. It’s a good thing the rest of the Caravan has adjusted. “I do. Maybe I can hop into the river.” You aren’t picky. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it does Sophia.

“No!” Sophia protests. “Come on. Cathar’s baths are still open. We can go together. They’re probably close to draining for the night anyway, and everyone else will be celebrating.”

We can go together. Your face feels warm. You’re glad she’s walking in front of you as she usually does. She’s holding your hand—you try not to think too hard about what that means. “Okay,” you say instead of voicing any of your thoughts. “Let’s do it.”

She leads you off the main path in the village toward the long, low building that houses the hot baths. The keeper, a short Wyverian woman who works one of the market stalls by day, lets you both in with a knowing smile on her face. Your face reddens for sure this time. You want to explain to her—it’s not like that, we’re not like that—but you don’t have the time to.

You try not to stare at Sophia while she undresses but it’s hard not to at least take a glance, so you peek for a second and try not to feel like a horrible human being for doing so. You know Sophia values privacy, so you focus on peeling off your own sticky, dirty garments. They end up taking the majority of your attention. You’re just glad you don’t have any major gashes or you’d be cutting the clothes off yourself right now. Or you’d be in the care of a healer. It’s hard to tell.

Most hunters seek out privacy to lick their wounds. You’re just the same, except you won’t refuse medical attention when it’s brought to you.

Without glancing over at her you step outside into the bathing area. The chilly wind is a sharp contrast to the steam curling up over the water. You test the water with your foot. It’s hot but it won’t scald you. You grab a towel and throw it into the water first before descending down the stone steps into the pool.

It’s nice. It grows nicer still when Sophia joins you. She’s sitting to your left, reclining her head while you grab the towel that’s attempting to float away.

“You sure you want to sit there?” you ask. “There might be a dirt cloud.”

“Eugh. Did you have to say that?” Sophia asks, kicking off the stone wall of the bath and floating over to the opposite end of it. She smiles at you. She doesn’t have her glasses on. “There. Enough distance? Is your sludge going to reach me from over here?”

“Maybe,” you tease. “Soon it’ll overtake the whole pool.”

You wash your face first, scrubbing the towel hard over it. A girl you used to know had always used to tell you to wash your face gently. She was from Pokke like you. You used to think of her as home. Now you think of her and a bitter ugly feeling wells up in your chest. Usually you keep her out of your mind—she’s all the way back home and you’re not. You’re a hunter and she’s not.

You scrub away at your skin. Before long you start to uncover a person underneath the black-and-brown dirt and blood covering your arms and legs and back and stomach. It’s everywhere. Luckily the only parts of yourself left to clean are your hair and your hands. You make quick work of both of them using the soap provided by the bath house.

“I’m getting wrinkly,” Sophia complains after a while. Your side of the pool is clearer now. The dirt has probably spread out in the water. Ordinarily that would bother you but you’re so much cleaner than you were before. You figure a little bit of dirty water won’t harm anyone. “We should leave.”

She’s flushed from the heat. You can see her clearly from across the small bath. You’re a few meters away at most. You want to study her features from up close . . . and to move in the moment would feel like a sin—but when have you ever been religious?

You move across the pool toward her.

“Doodle?” she asks. You can’t quite get a read on her expression. Confused. Hopeful. Expectant. You’re not sure what she’s waiting for. Your eyes stray to her lips almost against your will. Maybe she wants you to kiss her here where nobody can see. It’s dark. The coals glowing in the braziers struggle to stay lit even as the wind picks up a little more. They build them sturdy in Cathar. They have to, otherwise a torch would never stay lit. Light and dark. You want to die in the light and Sophia wants to kiss you in the dark. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to move over next to you,” you say quietly. You stretch your legs and the water ripples. You aren’t quite touching Sophia but it’s a close call. If you leaned a little more to the right you would be brushing up against her shoulder. A part of you craves the contact and the other part curls away from it.

“Anything else you wanted to do, maybe? You’re leaving tomorrow.”

That’s right. You’re leaving for Val Habar tomorrow. Weeks and months and years on the move. This is no different. They’ll be drinking late into the night and after that they’ll pack ‘til the sun rises. They will close up the Man’s smithy. Little Miss Forge will pack up her decorations stall. The Wycoon will box up his stand. The Street Cook will dismantle his kitchen. And you will step onto the Arluq without her.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask. It’s quiet. The only light you can see is coming from the braziers mounted on the walls. They’re close to burning out, embers glowing gold and orange and dying. You feel like that. Sophia nods and you kiss her and try not to think about leaving for a few months. It’s a short kiss, her closed lips pressed against your own. You close your eyes. Something inside you breaks and the rest of you heals around it.

*

She gets you into the Rathian costume after you’ve had more than enough of your share of alcohol. It’s sloppily-sewn, and the wings are no more than green fabric draped over wire meant to be attached to your arms. But . . . it’s cute. You like it because Sophia made it. There’s no face-piece, but you deign to put on your Rathian helm for the sake of entertainment.

“Again!” Sophia demands. She’s giggling, but the full-face flush she’d been wearing before is fading. The drinking had started a few hours ago, but you’ve only been at this for around fifteen minutes. “No, not the screech . . . the fireballs.”

You bend over in what you know is a ridiculous imitation of the wyvern. Your arms are cocked behind you like wings and your legs are spread wide so you don’t fall over. You pretend to blow three flaming fireballs out of your mouth. Little Miss Forge slaps her fist against the table and you fall over theatrically. You misjudge your landing and manage to smush some of the soft, thin wire in the wing piece of your costume.

The Caravaneer guffaws. “Haven’t had yeh reenact a monster hunt in forever! How’d yeh decide to do it now?”

“A lot of booze,” you say, staring at his feet. “What next?”

“Maybe if you took off the helmet next . . . I know it’s strong . . . maybe if you did the tail flip again . . . ” He’s been like that all night. Sophia reminds him you can’t do a tail flip for obvious reasons and also, you hadn’t done one to begin with. “What? I could have sworn . . . well, you shouldn’t wear your field gear for something like this. I remember making that.”

“Of course you do,” Sophia reassures him.

You’re still on the ground. It’s kind of comfortable here and you think you could fall asleep here. You really could. The Rathian costume is badly-sewn and your helm is no doubt digging into the wood of the ship. The wire from the wings is digging into your arms, irritating your skin, but you ignore it with the ease of someone who’s endured much worse. The Street Cook is passing around more mead.

“She’s doing it again,” the Street Cook says. He sounds impatient.

“The helm . . . ” the Man moans. “It’s scratching up the ship’s floor.”

“Oh, calm down,” Little Miss Forge says. “We can just pretend it was a scar on the wood from, like, an attack at sea! How cool is that?”

Someone shakes your shoulder. “Ugh,” you mumble. Maybe if you shut your eyes long enough whoever it is will go away. “Let me sleep.”

“Any sleeping you’ll be doing needs to be in your cabin,” Sophia says gently. She shakes you again. “Come on. You can’t sleep on the deck. You’ll get chilly. But you know, you really should be getting up to help us pack. You can sleep later if you want to.”

She has a point. You just really don't want to get up right now. But you do need to sort out your armor, pick what you want to bring into your cabin and which stuff can stay in the hold. You definitely have your work cut out for you now. It's a shame this all has to be done by torchlight. You're glad the Arluq is situated away from the houses in the village, at least. If you were any closer, you'd probably keep them up all night with your packing noises.

“Okay,” you grumble, picking yourself up off the ground. “But first I need you to help me get this off.”

The wire on your left arm is bent in multiple places. It's digging into your skin uncomfortable close into the muscle near your shoulder. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself for falling over in the first place and squashing the metal. Maybe you shouldn't let Sophia trick you into imitating monsters again. But the look on her face when you do it is priceless—she laughs, you laugh.

Sophia starts to pry the costume off you. After your arms are free, you step back and start to undress. No reason to make her keep doing the work for you. The helm comes off last and you set it gingerly on the table. The Man, at least, seems relieved. You're glad you could do that much for him. He takes the helm into his hands and promises to take it back to your cabin. You thank him.

“Here,” Sophia says, and hands you a tin of cool water. You chug the whole thing in one go and wipe your lips with the back of your hand. She makes a face at you but other than that says nothing. You grin at her and she leads you off the ship. It’s been a few hours. The buzz of the alcohol is already subsiding. The sounds of the Wycoon and the Street Cook haggling over something or other fade away as you two make your way toward your little canvas house.

“I can't believe we have to dismantle this whole thing in just a few hours,” you gripe. Gravel and loose stones clatter underfoot. You're expecting a response but she doesn't give one. You wonder if she feels awkward around you or if she hadn't thought she needed to give one. They both sound weird to your ears. You wonder which one is worse. “Are you good to carry armor? Or would you rather help me with the box?”

Sophia steps on an unstable stone and nearly topples over. You jump in to catch her and when you bring her up and steady her with a hand on either shoulder, you notice her face is flushed. Is it from the alcohol? Or from the close contact? You hadn't been looking too closely at her face before and now you wonder if you should have been. Maybe she'll ask you to kiss her again. You’d like that.

“I hate these rocks,” she mutters, kicking a loose stone and sending it skidding away from either of you. She hasn't stepped away from you yet so your hands are left sitting there on her shoulders. You're not sure what you're supposed to do with them. Maybe you're supposed to move them down her arms and hold her by the small of her back. Maybe you're supposed to keep them there and pull her closer toward you. It's what you'd done with your girlfriend back in Pokke. But she's different from Sophia. You don't know what Sophia likes, what she wants, what you should do around her. You want the knowledge so badly it hurts. She’s the light and you can't help but reach toward her.

In the end you let your hands fall back against your sides. There's something in between the two of you now that feels like glass. It'll hurt if it shatters. It'll hurt if it melts. You don't know what she wants from you. If she told you to hunt her the moon you'd send an arrow through the damn thing and pull it down to earth. If she told you to put out the sun you'd find a way. You would.

Sophia gives you a strange look, like she's waiting for you to do something.

 _I could carry you,_ your mind insists. It wouldn't do you any good. You could carry her but you're too close to your house to make any difference. The practical thing to do would be to loan her a pair of your shoes. It won't help her not knowing how to walk on Cathar's ground but it'll keep the jagged pebbles from poking into the bottoms of her feet. You wonder if she's in pain right now. Her shoes are soft and green and have a raised heel in the back, not suited at all to walking on the rough ground.

“I could carry you,” you offer out loud.

You're only a hundred paces away from your house. The offer sounds more stupid the more you think about it. Maybe your drunkenness has made you bold. You'd like to take a nap on the ground here, with the stones and the gravel pressing into your arms and legs and dirt winding its way into your hair. Or maybe you just want to disappear forever.

The words hang awkwardly in the air. You're waiting for them to drop, to fall on your head like the stones from Heaven's Mount do if you don't watch out for them. You want her to tell you not to do it. You want her to tell you how silly and irrational you're being, and maybe you should drink some water and get to packing up already. There's some water in a canteen in your house. You could make an excuse. You could tell her you're drunk and not thinking straight and she should just forget about it even though you’re not so drunk, not really.

“I'd like that,” Sophia says, brushing her hair out of her face. Her glasses are crooked again and you feel like crying.

Instead you pick her up like the knights always picked up princesses in your fairy tales. You're not a knight. You're a woman who walks around in armor made from monsters. But you pick her up all the same, and it takes a little stumbling and a little giggling before you find a way to balance her safely in your arms, but you reach it in the end and carry her into your house.

“We should start getting this stuff together,” you say lamely, setting her down onto the floor. Her shoes click against the wooden boards. “And . . . you can borrow a pair of my shoes if you need to. You're not working right now. You could—you could just not wear the uniform. I'd hate to see you in pain because of your shoes.”

Sophia stares at the ground. At her shoes, maybe.

“Okay,” she says simply, sitting down to take them off. Her green guildmarm robes pool around her. They're loose and impractical—at least, to you they are. You haven't worn clothes for fashion in years. You wonder what it's like to look at a garment and not wonder whether it'd get you killed because you got tangled up in it one day. Maybe that's why you accept whatever the Man gives you now and a few shirts and pairs of pants you'd bought in Pokke before you left for Val Habar. Before you climbed onto the horn of an elder dragon to retrieve an old man's lost hat. It was long ago but the memory is clear and crisp in your mind. You were at the market and you reached out and touched the sleeve of a dark blue shirt.

You silently hand Sophia a pair of your shoes and repeat your earlier question. “Do you want to start on armor first or the box?”

“The item box,” Sophia says decisively. “It's heavy. After carrying armor back and forth I won't want to do that, so . . . best to get it out of the way right now, I think.”

“Good idea,” you say, taking your place by one of its handles while Sophia laces up the shoe. “One . . . two . . . three. Lift!”

It takes fifteen minutes to get the box across the short distance toward the Arluq, and up the ramp. The Caravaneer and the Man pause their work and help strap it down to the ship, although you have to break in halfway through because the Caravaneer is really too drunk for this and the Man keeps fumbling with one of the smaller clasps he’d accidentally loosened. It's secured with metal bolts that fit into the deck of the ship. It'll be safe on the deck of the Arluq. At least you don't have to brave stormy waters anymore. You’d had to store the box in the belly of the ship during that. Now, the most you have to fear is attacks by random flying wyverns or bad air currents. You grimace—hopefully you haven't just jinxed the entire ship.

This time, when you go back to your house with Sophia, Little Miss Forge accompanies you because she thinks you missed some decorations. You kick lightly at a potion bottle that had escaped your notice and she picks it up.

“These things aren't stones, you know. You should keep them in better condition than that, sir!” she scolds. It's endearing. You pick the thing up and stuff it in your belt. It's probably months old by now. You don't want to find out if it's still drinkable or not, but you can't throw it away in front of her or she'll have a fit.

Sophia's trying to pick up three pieces of armor at once. She drops one of the arm pieces onto the floor, and when she bends to pick it up the leg piece drops down next to it. She stamps a foot on the ground impatiently. “Why can't I just be like the Man? Why can't I just carry around a whole armor set at once?”

“Let me help,” you say. She gives you a stubborn look and you hold her gaze. She sighs softly and picks up the other arm piece. You step forward and retrieve the leg piece from her. “It's okay. We can't all be hulking giants with a talent for metalworking. I like you as you are.”

“You'd better, Doodle,” she says. Your eyes catch on her lips as she's speaking and it takes some effort to tear them away. “Forge, you've got the decorations in your bag, right?”

“Yes!” she reports, saluting with one mittened hand. “And before you remind me, I did check on the floor for any that were rolling around. Unless Miss Hunter's got some in her bed that I don't know about.” She gives you a suspicious look.

“I don’t,” you reassure her. Or at least you think you don't. It's hard to tell. When you'd first joined the Caravan and had the little canvas house commissioned, you'd kept it as clean and tidy as possible. Now you avoid spending time in there because the mess hurts your eyes. “Probably.”

Little Miss Forge frowns at you, but mostly she's focused on rooting around, upturning piles of armor and blankets that you have scattered around the place. “You should take care of your decorations! They're powerful stuff, you know. And what if you lost one forever? You paid good money for that! I mean, not that I don't like getting paid . . . but I feel bad. You're always back here asking for the same decorations. Aha!”

She pulls a sack out of a suspicious-looking pile of trash. You try not to wince.

“So that's where those decorations went,” you say in place of an apology. “I’ve been looking for them.”

“Now you have, like, two of everything! Don't you ever think before you put stuff down? I put so much time into these! Aw, come here, babies, Little Miss Forge'll take care of you. Obviously Miss Hunter didn't have time for you.” Her mood changes from irritated to sunshine-sweet in an instant. It’d be mildly disturbing, you think, if it wasn’t so cute. “I'll just put you away in my cabin for now . . . ”

*

You store the canvas from your home in the cargo hold. The patch of land your house had rested on is bare of anything except squashed earth and rocks pressed into the grass from the weight of the floor. You wipe the sweat off your brow with the hem of your shirt and make your way up onto the deck. You're just about dead on your feet. Every muscle aches. Usually this feeling is reserved for days-long hunts that drag on and on and—

Sophia's waiting for you on the deck, seated at the table they haven't taken down yet. She's drinking out of a canteen. It's probably water, although it could be a Cool Drink. You think they're horrible but Sophia can never seem to get enough of them. Ugh. Bitterbugs.

“Today’s the last day, I guess,” Sophia says. “You sure you don’t want to participate in that hunting competition? It sounds really fun, you know. I think you should give it a try. I hear there's Dah'ren Mohran activity around Val Habar this time of year. You might get to face your old nemesis.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Although I'd much rather go to Harth with you. What's a giant sand dragon compared to a Brachydios?”

“You're just saying that,” Sophia grumbles, swatting at your arm. “But you're right. I can't believe Brachydios manufacture their own explosives! And did you know they don't even get hurt by them? They're so magnificent . . . Gosh, Doodle, I could talk about this for days. I mean it! Not only are they a sophisticated predator, but their color scheme . . . blue and green. Royal blue and green, even. Whoever brought them into existence had the right idea.”

You sit down next to her sometime in the middle of her little tirade. It's cute. In fact, you might go so far as to say it's cute. And you're leaving all this behind for a day. You don't want to leave. You want to stay here with her and grab the next airship to Harth. You want to kiss her again right here on the deck of the Arluq. A goodbye kiss, if you have to leave. But you don’t want to. You'd follow her to the ends of the earth if only she would let you. But you figure she wouldn't want you to do that.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “You probably aren’t interested in hearing me go on a rant about monsters.”

"It's good to know about monsters," you say before you really know you're doing it. "Not just—not just weaknesses. I mean, weaknesses are good. I just think it’s better to be personal with them."

Sophia nods and looks down at her little canteen. “Not many people agree with you there, Doodle.”

Some people say it's easier to kill a monster you know nothing about. They say it's hard to kill a monster you like. Keep it impersonal, the Guildmaster tells you. Keep it impersonal so you don't hesitate. A hesitant hunter is a dead hunter. You wonder if your mother made that mistake. She'd always loved Nerscylla, and she’d been happy when she kissed your forehead and left for the forest.

Maybe that love had been her downfall. Maybe she saw it suffering, legs broken, spikes shattered, fangs wrenched out of its face. Maybe she saw it and had pity. Maybe the Nerscylla had learned something from its usual prey and had played up its weakness. Maybe your mother had had pity and the Nerscylla had extended its poison fangs and snapped her in half.

You'll never know the full story. The only thing you know is they'd only found the top half of her body. You wonder why the Nerscylla didn't take that too.

“I’m off to hunt a Nerscylla,” your mother had said, eyes bright behind her helmet. “Be back before you know it.”

A week later a Guild Hall representative had knocked on your front door.

“You meet all sorts of folks in the Guild Hall,” you say. “Some of them might be more open to the idea of knowing about monsters.”

“Maybe,” Sophia says, pondering. “But still. You’re the only one I’ve met who really listens. I'm going to change that. How could you not want to know about these guys more? How could anyone ever not want to learn? Doodle, I'm gonna change what we know about monsters. I'm going to make it so that everyone knows everything about—about everything they wanna know about.”

Sophia has lofty goals. She wants to climb the ranks in the guild. She wants to be a teacher. You wonder if she'll stop handing out quests to you one day. You can't imagine any other guildmarm giving you assignments, other than the ones in the official Guild Hall. Maybe Sophia will become a teacher for the Guild. Maybe the notebooks she’d filled day after day with drawings of monsters, scribbles that say what they like to eat and where they live and how they fight—maybe other people will see them too, not just you and her and a candle after dark.

“That's a good goal,” you say, and you try to mean it.

It's quiet again. Everyone else is either belowdecks or outside the ship packing up the last of the things. You're set to leave in a few hours. You have the feeling you've forgotten something. Maybe it's not that you'll step onto the Arluq without her like you’d thought. Maybe it’s that you will stay on the ship and she'll disembark without you. You'll be one month without her but it'll probably actually be two, if your luck has anything to say about that.

You’d kissed her last night by the light of a dying fire. Your fingers had been pruny. So had hers. The water should have been clean because you want nothing but the best for Sophia, but it wasn’t. It had been slightly cloudy from washed-off blood and dirt. You want to die in the light and you had kissed her in the dark. You don't think it hurts but you wonder . . . you wonder if it does. You wonder if it hurts her when you drop your hands and ruin the moment. You wonder if it hurts you and you've just learned to live with it, or in spite of it.

You wonder if it hurts and you've grown to like it.

Yesterday something inside you broke and you healed around it. You can still feel the jagged pieces in your chest. You breathe. In, out, in out. It pokes at your lungs.

You feel like crying and this time you can't just will the feeling away like you usually do. You don't have any claim on Sophia. She's not yours and you aren't hers. All you’ve shared is a few years on the road, money passing from calloused hands to soft ones, notebooks slid back and forth, and a single kiss in the dark. Sophia doesn't belong to you and she never has but all the same you don't want to let her go.

Her other hand, the one that's not clutching her canteen, is on the table. It's close enough for you to reach out and take it. You could. You could grab her hand and she'd probably let you. Maybe she would smile and lean in and brush her lips against yours. But you don’t take it. It's not about what other people think—the Caravaneer would understand, the Wycoon would smile, Little Miss Forge would pronounce it “very cute,” and the Man would congratulate you. It's not about what anyone else thinks. It's about you. Isn't everything? Like a circle, a stone well, a buzzard winging slowly through the air hoping you'll leave your kill behind, it always comes back to you and the ugly shards of hurt in your chest.

Somewhere in the village, a gong sounds.

“I think it’s about time I left,” Sophia says. She doesn't look at all like she wants to leave. You want her to stay here forever. You can only hope she shares the sentiment. “I should really get going.”

“Yes,” you say, instead of _stay here with me_ or _I'll go with you_ or _we should get going_ or _I love you_ or any of those other things. Something curls up in your stomach. It feels like loneliness, or maybe anger. You remember the feeling of black scales on skin. It brings out the worst in you.

Sophia walks off the ship and takes her canteen with her. Just before she reaches the ramp down she looks at you. You can’t read what’s in her eyes. You bite back a frown and wave to her. She smiles. Waves back. Disembarks.

“Ready ta get going?” the Caravaneer asks you, taking his hat off and fanning himself with it. It’s a hot day. You don’t blame him. “Rest of us are all prepared. I reckon we can get into the air in just a few more minutes. Sad to see the Guildmarm goin’, but what can yeh do?”

“I’m ready,” you say. The Caravaneer smiles.


End file.
